If it’s not this, it’s some other idiotic cause. You should put your efforts in the business rather than some silly chase for whatever the hell that is.’ By now she had risen from her seat, and her voice and tone had risen too.
‘You don’t even know what this is. Do not lecture me.’ He scowled, shielding his eyes from the sun coming through the carriage window behind her. ‘And certainly don’t be doing it on my train.’
This was painfully ignored.
‘I don’t need to know what it is because I know what you’ll end up doing. I know it’ll lead to us running around for a few weeks chasing some trinket on a whim. Her whim, may I add. These things never end well and I refuse to sew up another bullet wound on account of your stupidity.’ Misu pulled her black hair into a ponytail before fastening a clip around it.
‘Watch your tongue when you speak to me,’ Franco said, giving a stark warning that this matter was over. ‘This isn’t your call to make.’
She snatched her glass and proceeded to storm out. Before she did, she pulled open the door to the connecting carriage and looked behind her.
‘Then you can make it on your lonesome. Damn you. Focus on us, Franco. Not some fantasy.’
And with that she left.
Franco watched the door slam, the sound of the hissing engine and wheels on tracks falling quieter. The carriage rocked back and forth in slow momentum. He ran a hand over his face, fingers trailing down his damp neck to his shoulder. The indented scar where he’d been struck by a bullet some months ago was a stark reminder that Misu spoke the truth. He was comfortable with the Gambler’s Den. He led a nomadic life, one blessed with freedom – an alarmingly rare commodity.
Those aboard depended on him to make the right choices. They looked up to him but not because he wanted them to; it was because they needed someone to give orders. Franco was never good at taking orders so he couldn’t relate to their views, but he did understand that everybody needed a leader in some form. However, he hadn’t set out for the Den to become what it was – an extravagant travelling casino. The rundown steam engine was a wreck when he first set eyes on it, rusting away in a derelict yard. Abandoned and gradually being absorbed by the rising sand, Franco was offered the opportunity to take the Den and fix it up.
There was not much else to indulge in, unless criminality was your thing. Home was depressingly void of excitement, forcing laborious graft from any and all. But Franco hated the prospect of working in the mine, or being stuck in the smelter until injury or death allowed respite. No, for him it was a hobby that had expanded beyond his expectations, and soon became something far more important, something others in his position would fail to attain.
It became a way out.
The first time the train staggered into life had given him a feeling like no other. Valves spluttered, choking on the sand, before purifying them with titanic blasts of steam. Each creak and groan within its behemoth-like frame led to another task to resolve: a split in its funnel, the almost melodic pounding from the boiler when fired up. The poor thing was falling apart, but it was nothing that hard graft couldn’t resolve.
Each time the Gambler’s Den ran, the ride got smoother. The breakdowns became fewer and further between. Franco was not an engineer, far from it in fact, but his grandfather was keen to get the lad’s hands dirty and adopting this train was like adopting a child. It would always have to be cared for – he was constantly reminded, by the words emanating from beneath the grease-soaked whiskers of the old man – and he wouldn’t be around for ever.
That was a sobering truth.
Gentle trips from outpost to outpost, nothing taxing at first, felt exhilarating and the braver the ventures became, the more people wanted to join him. So many were desperate to abandon homes with limited opportunities or leave their history behind them in a haze of steam and dust. Franco provided escapism for those who did not want to be found any more. Whilst he secretly resented that, was he so different?
He got to his feet, leant on the frame of a window, and looked out. The scenery was the same as before – barren and desolate. A pack of feral dogs chased the train over the waste ground, one oddly staring at Franco as he contemplated it. The sun beat down. The dust was choking. To others, the world was not worth exploring, as it seemed that in every direction they went it was the same picture – sand and more sand. It consumed everything relentlessly.
Every village, every town, even the very horizon embraced its vastness, enough to scrub ambition from all those in it. How many times had he heard people complaining about their lives, about their circumstances out here? Far too numerous to count. Escape. All people stated that they wanted to escape. Not leave, but to escape, as if the Sand Sea had imprisoned them and was solely responsible for their difficult lives.
The more the train ran, the more Franco realized that he could do just that.
* * *
Misu stormed through each carriage wearing the most terrible of scowls. That arrogant fool, she thought. How condescending of him to pass me off! The Gambler’s Den would grind to a halt if I wasn’t organizing people whilst he obsessed over these follies.
She burst into the residence carriage of the showgirls, a number of whom jumped in surprise at the loud entrance, prompting others looking out from their rooms. They buzzed around Misu, who shook in annoyance with fists clenched. Her insistence that she was fine was brushed aside in a collective embrace. The showgirls enfolded their superior, the mother of their family, speaking out against Franco and citing how his opinion was worthless. For them, seeing Misu frustrated was becoming a depressing regularity.
* * *
Wyld had taken up residence in the storage car. Her trunk was hidden among a series of props that were erected on demand for various shows. She grasped at the padlock, its keyhole just for decoration. Her fingers jabbed the trunk’s base in sequence before she twisted the padlock itself in various ways. It clicked open from the momentum. The trunk lid fell open. Inside, beneath a false compartment, was a bevy of various lock-picking tools, small firearms, and knives.
From the very bottom, wrapped up in a blanket, Wyld produced a golden statue: a winged effigy of unusual splendour. He stood proudly, lance aloft and gloriously gilded wings spread outward. It was a religious figure, one of many who held significance, especially to those living in a region where few had little more than their faith. Ungloving a finger, she ran a fingertip down the statue’s face before whispering a small prayer.
From her knapsack she pulled out a similar sculpture, similar in design but larger in build. The score from Rustec mirrored the one already in her possession, though it exhibited a catalogue of differences. She only paid it a glance in comparison to the affection portrayed to the one from the chest. Tenderly binding them with the same fabric, Wyld replaced her prizes, closed the trunk, and made herself comfortable for a much-needed sleep.
* * *
Franco was less content. The glass of brandy that he had poured to make the night warmer was empty, despite filling it up for the fifth time. He traced the line drawn on the regional map with his finger, tapping the named destination closest to their location. Sheets of paper with additions scrawled all over did nothing but raise concern.
Financially the Den was in trouble. The recent suppression on trading routes to the south was forcing oil and machine prices upward. With a hiss, he acknowledged the amount of additional shows the Den would have to perform – unless there was another way. If only they could be outlaws,
